


raincloudy way

by atlaslov



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e15 Revelations, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Headaches & Migraines, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Nightmares, Revelations Spoilers, Suicide, Trauma, also the ‘death’ is cannon if you’ve seen revelations, both when it happens and the rxn/aftermath, can you tell bits of this are venty aye, cursing, graphic description of trauma, mainly I would suck at romance, mentions a few different drugs, mostly past, some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27498811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlaslov/pseuds/atlaslov
Summary: (first sorry there’s so many extreme sounding tags, I just wanna be careful!! I’ll elaborate in note at the bottom if you read that far lol)Kind of a play by playish of reid getting kidnapped by hankel, but mainly a very human look at how trauma can do weird shit to you and your thought processes bc I just rewatched the first couple seasons after a long time and this episode always just stuck out to me. The disjointed-ness is partially intended (trauma, etc.) but again, I’ve been pissed at my migraine & I should have been sleeping al o n g  time ago.just tread lightly & take care of yourself <3
Relationships: The whole team really - Relationship, just hella close friends/fam type stuff
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. Trauma

Walking in on Nathan Harris, split open from the wrists, already in a haze of blood loss, barely clinging to reality, just enough to beg for Reid to just let him die; it was a lot. All he was thinking of (probably to avoid processing the Nathan issue) was a friend he had back in high school— one of the “I don’t give a fuck” types, on the surface at least. 

(Isn’t that how most of those types were?) 

Either way, he was one of the only other people in that god forsaken hell that talked consistently and genuinely to him. No one messed with Reid when his friend was around. Like they just didn’t care enough to deal with a possible dominant personality backing him up. 

Either an easy target, or not worth a second glance. Nothing new there, to be honest. 

He remembers they even smoked weed together once at party, weirdly enough, one of the few times Reid had tried to go out and be sociable, be a normal teen that did normal teen things. 

His friend ended up opening up about his father, how he had been the one to find him—dead, shot, center of his forehead, slightly down angled, looking for the most damaged brain, the most fatal injury. 

Suicide. 

The month in which the party took place, September, was coming around on a year of him walking in on his dad’s gruesome and relatively fresh corpse. Coming up on another birthday for his friend too. (Not the same day, but close enough that he’s not into birthdays anymore.)

It fucked him up way more than he let on, and it was pretty apparent _something_ was wrong. A sudden drop in grades, more instances of him skipping class, he no longer had any reservations on experimenting with way more hardcore drugs. He admitted he had almost died huffing paint last month. 

(Anything to get away.)

That explained the rash around his mouth clearing up as of late, not just hormonal acne. He had thought something else was going on. 

_”Well. I’m glad you’re here.” Not knowing what else to offer, Reid just spoke his genuine thoughts._

_Somehow the laugh in response was both good natured and absolutely cynical._

_“At least someone is!”_

He— not himself (not Reid)— was fifteen? Sixteen? (Where was his brain? He knew if he could rely on anything it would—should—be his memory.) That jogged something and he recalled his friend, Lee, was fifteen. He skipped a grade, was on a path more or less like Reid himself until finding his dad..... like that. 

Guy didn’t plan on becoming law enforcement like Reid, he was softer personality wise, young but really good at not taking anyone’s shit. Like he didn’t even register those comments kind of no bullshit. Still, not quite cut out for field work in the gore sense of things. 

People change though. That’s been almost ten years ago. (Ten... right?)

He imagines being fifteen and walking into a room, unsuspecting, to find his mother on the floor with a gunshot wound in her forehead, blood on the nightstand and bed, everything planned, calm, deliberate. A note on the bloody nightstand that somehow dodged getting anything on it. 

(Where am I? He wonders vaguely. It’s got to be early, woken up by a migraine. That’s really the only thing that makes his brain this ineffective, this emotionally driven. Maybe it rained. He didn’t remember that in the forecast. Barometric pressure could still change without a rainstorm in the forecast. Damn. His thoughts are darting like when waking up from an anesthetic.)

He’d seen a lot of gruesome crime scene photos even at a young age. Like, definitely more extreme than was probably healthy even for adults. Even so, only experiencing things on the job made him really understand. Crime scene photos were not the same as field work. 

Even after seeing those things for real, (even after Elle), it was Nathan Harris that made him question for the first time if he was cut out for field work either. Holding gaping wounds, applying pressure. The small layer of fat cells between the epidermis and the _blood_ pooling made the wound seem cleaner, but exposed just how deep the gashes really were. 

The problem was also seeing a person he had some level of care for, not just another unfortunate victim of another sick mind. Not being too late, for once. 

Well, he supposed Nathan was trying to make himself the only victim of his own sick mind. 

Reid had honestly reacted to the scene— _so much blood_ — slower than usual. 

(How he was feeling now, sluggish and inconsistent. Ugh. Did he leave his light on overnight? And the smell. Something he never really noticed unless during a migraine.)

The shock of seeing self inflicted wounds that severe on someone still alive(?) had pulled at his stomach in way that made him pause for a few seconds, a creeping dread in his lower abdomen and a sick feel in his throat before adrenaline and routine kicked in when he saw a slight, slow, rise and fall in the chest. 

(That dread feeling was here now. Damn. Remembering too vividly again? Something’s off.)

He clenched his eyes as the dull yellow light bore past his eyelids even closed. 

(His bedroom light was more of a blueish hue—)

The hits just seemed to keep coming. A string of difficult cases recently made him hope Morgan was holding up okay. Reliving trauma was always, well, it came with challenges. 

(Ha, challenges.)

He remembers the wicked headache onset after those cases. Going into a vaguely dissociative state after Nathan as he was checked out for any wounds or signs of trauma, he remembers double bagging his clothes and throwing them out, not realizing how much blood was on his arms until catching a glimpse in the hospital bathroom mirror—

It just, could never be easy for once? 

(The most recent case must have been pretty bad if he’s not even remembering what it was about, if he’s struggling with his sensory perceptions this much—)

Oh. 

Oh. 

_Oh._

Now he knows why his head hurts so badly, why it was blocking him from his surroundings so intently. 

He still doesn’t open his eyes, but he feels cuffs around his wrists when he goes to inspect the head wound he probably has. 

_JJ._

He doesn’t know what happened to JJ after getting blitzed in the cornfield. He hopes whatever personality took him didn’t go back for her. 

The sound of crackling somewhere behind him brings him fully into the current moment. Finally. 

That smell is drilling behind his eyes, making him feel so nauseous for a moment he genuinely thinks he might throw up. He holds as still as possible and tries to take slow, full breaths through his mouth only. 

Fish hearts and livers. Raphael tells him when Reid finally speaks. 

_They believe you can see inside mens’ minds._

He’s in full overdrive now, trying what he knows best. Play into the delusions, avoid upsetting the kidnapper. Hostage situations were generally made under duress and were very tedious and circumstantial to negotiate. 

That’s what was bothering him most: he didn’t have as much information as he’d like, and head trauma was not aiding in his preparedness. 

The real gravity of the situation hits him when Raphael throws his attempts to play into it, to relate, right back in his face. No human emotion. 

_God’s will._

He’d never felt so unsure in his life. Even after everything, hearing an empty click of the revolver nearly sent him into a panic. Because he knew it was just going to be the beginning. 

He’s been pretty fucking low in his life, his mind supplies him with a quote _’not like a point on a map, rather like a glowing exit sign at a movie that’s never been quite bad enough to make me want to leave_ ’, but the absolute disgust at the thought of one of his team having to discover his body— 

His mind is switching between illogical panic (illogical?) and overly analytical strings of logic coming in purely for self preservation. 

He can hold out long enough for his team to find him. They’re good. Amazing. 

But even ‘treading lightly’ for more information makes Charles angry, makes Raphael feel a need to assert god’s will. Tobias has so much trauma it’s hard to get him to talk at all about anything other than his fear and remorse. 

Not even a glimpse of hope in his demeanor. He’s already resigned to the fact that there’s no way to ‘win’ against his father and God’s will. 

Tobias must see something in his eyes Reid doesn’t even realize is there. 

The feeling of being overwhelmed has always been there, it’s something that never really left; ever. He had to just figure out how to deal with it. But those little, needling, enough-therapy-helped-him-ignore thoughts, were harder to block at the moment, and he wasn’t enlisting any coping skills because this situation was so far off the map to begin with, he didn’t even know where to start. 

Always, just, wanting everything to stop. To just slow down. For a second, so he could _think_. Wanting it, whatever ‘it’ was, to be over. 

So he could be comfortable, safe, not in a life threatening hostage situation. 

The cloudiness and utter chaos must have been showing. He didn’t realize what was happening at first either. He’d thought the sight of his sock-less, bruised (and probably broken) foot had triggered Charles to front, intent on beating him some more.

Once Reid’s sleeve was rolled up past the elbow and Tobias was using his belt as a tourniquet (not Charles, not going to hit him with it) it became unfortunately clear. 

A haze of uneasiness settled in and he could only get weak pleas of refusal past his unsure lips. 

That look— genuine. Sorrow and guilt and _remorse_. He saw a small reflection of his own wish for things to stop for a moment. 

“Don’t tell my father. He doesn’t know they’re here.” 

(How many more unsubs would he identify with?)

He felt a needle push gently into the crook of his elbow, not unlike that of an IV stick. The sensation of whatever drug was going into his arm was slight. Much less noticeable than the burn of anesthesia. 

His senses dulled slowly. 

Feeling cloudy, a different cloudy, and the hyper-vigilance fading. 

-  
He comes-to slowly again. The sensory overload into full consciousness is sudden though, and his eyes snap open when he realizes he is not waking up from anesthesia. He is not in a hospital bed. Not safe. No real concept of how much time is passing. 

Nothing new to contribute to a profile really. No way to contact his team. 

It seemed he was alone for the moment though. Not as relaxing as one would expect, honestly— at least in this situation. 

He struggles to focus his eyes, not sure if it’s from head trauma, the migraine, the sensory overload, the fading drug making all of it just that much more intense. 

(Probably a painkiller or CNS depressant of some kind. Guessing an opioid, maybe benzos? He’s tired.)

He closes his eyes and listens instead. He doesn’t gather much other than a gentle breeze tousling unkempt grass every now and then. That sick feeling arises once more when he hears footsteps distantly. 

They’re strong and deliberate, but not so calculated as to be Raphael, and not so cautious as Tobias. 

So, Charles. The most unpredictable personality in his experience so far. Less threat of a fatality than the archangel. 

He didn’t trust his own assessments fully, though. Too many variables. Too much. In general. 

Eventually a camera and other various equipment were set up, and Raphael was back. Reid remembers seeing the numerous monitors through a window and making sudden eye contact with a face so unlike the Tobias he and JJ had spoken to moments before. 

His brain throws the term ‘micro-expressions’ at him vaguely.

He’s trying to get Reid to choose. To just, pick somebody to be killed. 

Like it’s that simple. Like it’s _justice_. 

He knows the camera is there for a reason. He pulls scraps of information together into what he hopes is useful to whoever may see it. Middle of nowhere. Surrounded by hunting equipment. The knowledge of exactly where to cut for an efficient slaughter. 

_The other heathens are watching._

He decides he doesn’t want to contribute directly to anyone’s death. Raphael sees no difference. Just sinners and the need for divine punishment. 

When he sees a figure ruthlessly split open the woman’s neck, major arteries, and move quickly to give the same treatment to the man... 

Reid admits that’s when he starts to intentionally allow the dissociative feelings to take over. He notes again how similar his natural coping mechanisms are to Tobias’. 

Dissociate, distract, avoid. 

And of course, convincing himself he was not the cause of that couple’s death doesn’t work so well either. 

He’s in and out of consciousness. Just piling and piling the mental gymnastics he’s already been trying to keep up with. 

How many times does he wake up from Charles’ violent way of getting him to confess? How many times has Tobias put him under in an attempt to help with the pain? Thankfully Raphael doesn’t seem to front as often. 

Yet still, he knows the amount of times he’s been saved by “God’s will” is far more than any human deserves. 

This isn’t like any clinical manifestation of DID he’s ever studied, most hosts and their alters are generally non violent. But he learns, and he tries to draw out Tobias as often as he can, the most forgiving personality. Next best is Charles. He’s been getting the shit beat out of him far more than has been streamed to his team. The other heathens. 

That was something he was unintentionally clinging to: how much his team hopefully _hadn’t_ witnessed. 

His brain was only letting him process the ‘embarrassing’ displays of pain when a stoic attitude and straight up willpower wasn’t enough. Calling himself weak for dissociating on the floor, wrists aching, when he knew he just had to wait for Charles to be done. Get the violence out of his system. Maybe. Hopefully. 

Having a personal target for whenever Hankel felt particularly aggressive could possibly keep the need to punish sinners at a minimum. Maybe he’d be too focused on getting a confession and Tobias too focused on minimizing the pain caused by Charles. Maybe that fight for control could keep Raphael away until his team could figure something out. 

He really doesn’t have any idea how much time has passed. And again, violence was not a typical symptom of DID. But trauma does strange things to the brain. 

(I’m gonna die here.) 

Gideon’s short speech tumbles through his mind. He swallows hard. Cotton mouth. Like swallowing sandpaper.

 _He cannot break you._

There is no way to objectively assess if he’s doing well or not. The fear of causing harm to anyone is what’s driving most of actions— whether that’s keeping the punishment from the ‘sinners’ or making sure no one has the trauma of discovering him dead. 

Minimal loss. Harm reduction. 

He’s distracted by a shout from Charles. Before he can even try to assess the context of what was happening, the camera is turned on and he’s being roughly readjusted to be in full view of it. 

Just staying upright is a challenge. He wishes for a moment he was restrained more so he didn’t have to struggle to just sit there and breathe anymore. 

He’s being accused, of more, of stalling the spread of his message. Of colluding with his team. 

How could he even? He was barely processing the small cabin he was in, let alone trying to communicate. (He did try to, but his hope for them coming through is fizzling out rapidly.)

“I’m not with them, I’m with you.” He hates how desperate it sounds. 

His cheekbone explodes for a moment and his whole body sways to the right. His arm jerks against the cuffs, unceremoniously causing more pain to his already sensitive wrists. 

All he can think is a drawn out curse, and eventually a weak plea for Tobias escapes him. He barely notices it, he’s just too focused on? Pain. God, breathing caused pain. Sitting up caused pain. Even just, letting go like a rag doll hurt. 

His right sleeve is yanked up suddenly, he counts five surprisingly lucidly, plus at least three more (he thinks) needle marks in his arm and registers a disgusted insult. His left sleeve is roughly exposing his other forearm. More disgust. He didn’t remember Tobias ever using his left arm. 

_Tell me it doesn’t make it better._

A cloudy feeling again starts to catch up to him, his heart is racing— no, just like it’s struggling to keep rhythm at all. 

The blow that finally sends the chair backwards to floor doesn’t even register as a new pain. The back of his head slamming into the floorboards definitely does, and it feels l

Like

Bb

Breathing through a plastic bag. 

And it’s 

Taken away, he coughs. A deeper breath. 

The cotton feeling in his throat has been haphazardly covered with dry spit and dry phlegm like linoleum covering hardwood floors or wallpaper thrown up without spackling previous damages. 

He almost chokes on his spit when he feels all the neurons in his brain fire at once. His hair is stuck to the sides of his face, adhered from sweat and probably blood. He sees a (head)stone with some words, then all he can see is Tobias’ stress and concern change into emotionless suspicion and deliberation. 

“You came back.” 

“I was given CPR.” It feels like he’s been breathing through a vacuum so clogged with dust, it’s nothing but a faint whisper. 

His jaws hurt. His teeth hurt. His whole body is sore. The only thing that’s different is the amount of adrenaline fueled lucidity— god he’s going to have to explain so much. 

If he makes it out. 

He’s able to have a full on conversation. Another choice. Choose _one of his team_ to die. 

No. 

No, no. Nonono. No. 

“Kill me.” 

Three empty chambers after that do not look good for his odds. 

Then an idea. 

A semblance of his fully functioning brain gives him another vague clue he hopes his team will get. He can feel time has run out for him and the certainty that grips his voice when he spits out facts and an incorrect bible verse is the last bit of his energy. He makes sure to look directly into the camera for part of it.

He feels guilty. He said it so easily. _Arron Hotchner._

The revolver goes off, unmistakably loud. The casing clatters to the floor, and another bullet goes in, spun for God’s will. 

And he disconnects the stream. 

That pit, that utter sick feeling of dread crashes in as the adrenaline fades. His time is truly up now. 

He just hopes they figure it out before anyone other than himself dies. 

The pain makes itself known once more and he still feels the pounding migraine there in the background, too. Just done. Too much. 

He confesses his sin. Abandoning his own mother just like his father did to both of them years earlier. 

Every other decision and consequence is throwing itself like messy craft glitter into his consciousness. He prophetizes his own death, simply. Detached. 

The relief of the handcuffs being unlocked was barely felt. It was slow and deliberate; he knew Reid would not run. He was... feeling far away, and half dragged to a spot. His own grave. 

Every movement was exhausting, agonizing. He struggled his way through much more than expected. The slow pace was unintentional; he was so so so... 

Weak. 

_I’m not weak._

_I know, honey._

He lifted the shovel once more, collapsing slightly onto it as Charles shed his jacket curtly. Reid’s heart almost stopped a second time when he saw lights, frantic but methodical, still not sure if he could be hallucinating more. 

Charles noticed his eyes dart and he went for the revolver the same time as Reid. One of them was faster. 

“There’s only one bullet in that gun.” He held a knife confidently towards Reid’s steady hands. 

_God’s will._

The decision rang out loudly amongst the stars and he could swear the cicadas fell silent for a moment. 

On autopilot he wrenched the knife away from a limp hand, hovering quietly over Tobias— only Tobias, as he thanked Reid. 

He watches the faraway look slowly glaze completely over. He’s reminded of Nathan. Lee. He wants to see his own mom. 

As if his body sensed the biggest current threat was neutralized, uncontrollable shaking wracked his body. Familiar voices rang out, his team. They did figure it out. 

Two sets of hands guided him up, and tearing his eyes away from Tobias’ for the first time, he was met with Aaron’s. Darkness, understanding, relief. 

_I knew you’d understand._

His world spun and he all but flung his entire body weight into the man, much too aware of how his voice cracked, exposing the guilt he planned on keeping to himself. He sagged into the embrace, feeling his stone faced unit chief’s body language betray him as relieved and even with some lingering fear. 

(Making sure he’s real?) 

It hurt to hug him, but it hurt more letting go. His eyes were squeezed tightly and when he opened them to blink away tears he saw JJ. Her eyes looked... different. 

He immediately went for her, Hotch still helping him stay afloat. The guilt he felt for leaving her behind, rushing unpreparedly into danger for both of them made everything spin again. Or his vestibular sense was out of whack from blunt force brain injury. Or lacking oxygen while his heart stopped. 

His stomach sunk realizing at least some of his team definitely saw him die. He fucking died. 

Suddenly glad he was again being almost completely supported because he was _not_ prepared for that realization to hit him. (JJ was so much stronger than any of them gave her credit for.)

He heard her whisper, “I am so sorry.” 

Genuine confusion swept him and he was squeezing her with what little strength he had left, choking out reassurance with as much sincerity in every fiber he could muster. 

He was passed to the other team members carefully, he couldn’t help much, too shaky and probably in shock, honestly. So glad to be able to hug them, though. 

_So_ glad. 

Gideon was calm as always, but he had a look in his eyes too. Just, everyone felt so guilty. And he felt guilty that they felt guilty. It was no one’s fault but his own. 

Any logic coherency had been crushed when he hugged JJ, he pushed weakly against Gideon’s chest, trying to speak once, finding his voice the second time and a miraculous ability to support himself one final time. 

“Can I have a second... alone?” 

Gideon pursed his lips knowingly, and nodded. None of this had really, truly hit him yet. They both knew it. And it was just starting to. Shock. 

The knowledge of killing a human being, especially in these extenuating circumstances could be a lot. A moment of privacy with the body, no one in danger any longer, was the least they could do. 

He fell heavily beside the body, still expecting something other than the complete vacancy in his eyes. Reid looked through his eyelashes, no full head movements, to see his team facing away respectfully. More careful movements reached into the pocket he’d seen him hide the little glass bottles in. 

The body was still warm, and Reid shivered involuntarily. Black letters spelled out “Dilaudid,” the word hauntingly confirmed his opiate/painkiller theory. 

Fuck. 

The gravity of living through... this. Near death— death. _Torture._

Something in him scoffed at the word, yet the physical feeling of being hit by truck remained as if to antagonize him. He stood carefully, feigning a clothing adjustment no one but himself (he hoped) would pay attention to. He crossed his arms and shivered again looking to see all the other agents turned away still. 

It wasn’t even that cold. Chastising himself so readily. 

Something like guilt for lying to his team so easily wrapped his brain in TV static and refused to let go. (That’s not the reason and he _knows_ that’s not the reason.)

He stood still. Just. Get into whatever vehicle is here. He stumbled forward a couple steps, forgetting about the pain in his foot until that attempt to support himself. So annoying. 

This he knew now. Was admitting now. 

His breathing becoming labored, eyes blinking desperately to focus on _not_ the black creeping into the static. Too much. Panic. 

He’s not had a full force panic attack in years. 

He’s crouched now, hands in the grass, head forward, between his knees. His vision cleared, but only for an immeasurable moment. He feels his body jerk lightly a few times and looking up—

His eyes catch Emily glancing back the moment he knows he’s going down fully. His fists curl in the grass, body rigid in a last ditch effort to save face— to just not pass out, not cause a scene, a bigger, even more dramatic scene than being found literally digging your own grave is a dramatic scene. But she knows, he can see her posture change slightly before 

Ooh~

Fuck, the definite end now. 

He tries to roll to his right, fall on top of _that_ pocket, with freaking _heroin_ (basically) in it, so that they’d be less likely to see. (Hopefully.)

_You’re pitiful. Just like my weakling son._

He feels the disgust towards himself that even after everything, this... bullshit, is the only part of reality he can focus on in his final moments of consciousness. 

Fuck. 

His eyes close, or roll back, either way, gone from world more naturally. (If trauma induced panic, exhaustion, and probably low blood pressure with acute malnutrition based on that familiar TV static after standing is ‘natural’.)

Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg ok, so if you’ve read this far, thank you!! here comes the random overshare bit no one asked for ❤️
> 
> so, by venty I mean most of the random non-canon stories are not made up, but they are exaggerated/changed slightly for both flow and privacy bc I’m paranoid. But I’ve been discovering possible trauma I didn’t realize was effecting me like trauma so rip I guess. (I’m in therapy & lucky to be able to have meds etc, so dw! & again, this is still part of how I deal? In talking thru it in 3rd person? idk man). 
> 
> Oh and the migraine thing too, I have been up for probably 24-36ish hours bc of a hell migraine and sometimes my unreliable brain just won’t turn off while also giving me the middle finger so
> 
> I have a shit ton of drug/alcohol/addiction stories bc too many people close to me have had those more intense? (and worrying) experiences. (addiction runs in the family I suppose) 
> 
> also some seemingly random stuff mentioned in this will get explained when I write more. It’ll be similar vibes, kinda depressing, because it’s dealing with some pretty heavy stuff. Not your cup of tea, no problem! 
> 
> thank you, and be safe <3


	2. Look out below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short lil chapter, again can you tell I had a migraine & couldn’t sleep? 
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading ❤️

_When will this migraine go away?_

It’s been weeks. He’s out of the hospital, he’s going through therapy, he’s taking things slow, doing everything the way he’s supposed to. Or trying to. 

He’s been itching to get back to work despite all the trauma it’s caused him. 

Right now he’s on his couch, ice pack, excedrin, and lights off to keep the ache from getting worse. It’s been a few days since his last one. (Everyone’s luck runs out eventually.) 

He finds himself thinking of those two little bottles of dilaudid in his medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He somehow got away with hiding them even after passing out in the grass in front of his team, police, and the paramedics. 

An accomplishment, really. (Accomplishment?) 

He still hasn’t used since detoxing in the hospital, but the fact he’s keeping the bottles at all— he knows it’s inevitable. 

He’s starting to feel like he did as a teenager, before treatment and help. Feeling isolated, out of place, and down. Well, not just “down”, that doesn’t even begin to cover the turmoil and honestly downright depressed feelings he’s been dealing with again recently. 

Why did I get to live? Why did I get to—have to— choose who lives and dies? Am I really important enough for “God’s will” to favor me? Am I really cut out for this line of work?

It’s already 1 am. Not terribly late if it weren’t for the fact he’s headed back to work in the morning. 

He’s been easing himself back into cases by helping with paperwork and stopping by the office here and there so his official return wouldn’t be such a shock to his system, so to speak. 

How long has it been since he’s taken excederin? Probably not 6-8 hours. The incessant ebb and flow pounding behind his right eye and all round the right hemisphere of his brain makes concentrating... difficult. The pain even managed to crawl all the way down to where his spinal cord attaches to the brain. 

Even though the brain itself has no nerve endings, the blood vessels and other tissues in the head surrounding it do, and they are more than enough to compensate. 

Fuck it. 

He stands finally. The apartment is pitch dark, blackout curtains on every window, and even towels or blankets covering mirrors and digital clocks to block out light. 

Head rush. 

Probably a combination of generally low blood pressure and not eating well recently because of the nausea from the stupid headache. 

Once the stars clear and he feels steady enough to let go of the couch, he heads to the bathroom. 

His phone says it’s almost 2am now, and his mirror in the bathroom says he looks like shit. The only light he turns on is a soft salt lamp, lightly illuminating his figure: sallow skin, hollow eyes, messy hair, an ice pack finagled under a headband so didn’t have to bother holding it. 

It wasn’t really a shock that he looked this bad, more so worry. He was worried about his team worrying. 

After a deep sigh, resignation, he opens the cabinet behind the mirror to finish his initial mission: get more excedrin. 

He takes the dose, replaces the bottle, and goes to close the cabinet. He hears the soft sound of magnets clicking together but can’t make the final move to push it fully closed, with the spring back into place. 

It’s so much effort (and it hurts) to focus his eyes so he simply lets himself see his reflection in double. And then finally tears himself away from whatever _else_ is in the medicine cabinet. 

He goes back to the couch (his bedroom smells weird, only during migraines) and tries to sleep. 

-  
The job never got easier, but being able to feel like you’re making a difference? That’s what kept him dedicated. Trying to make sure no one else has to go through what he did. Even before then, being able to provide closure, or justice, or even reunite families made it all worth it. 

The team is on the jet, on the way back to Virginia from their latest case. Reid is by himself, restless and trying to sleep, his brain still holding on to that wonderful migraine. 

Emily appears across from him, concerned but relaxed. 

“So, you wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“What?” The question genuinely puzzled him, “What do you mean?”

Maybe he wasn’t doing as well with hiding the headache symptoms as he thought. 

“Come on, I’m a profiler. We’re all profilers.” 

“I’ve been getting migraines more often lately, and I guess today’s was worse than I thought.” He says. “Sorry if I’ve been more irritable or snappy.” 

“Don’t worry, you haven’t been. Yet.” She adds the ‘yet’ almost like an afterthought before leaning in and continuing. “Besides, you and I both know that’s not what I mean.” 

Her concern had slowly faded into a smug, almost devilish grin, like she knows something he doesn’t. 

His confusion only amplified, along with a rising dread. He cocks his head slightly trying to remember if maybe he did open up a bit more to Emily, but there was nothing. 

“I... don’t think I do.” 

She leans in more, trailing her fingers up his sleeved right forearm and finally whispers close to his ear, “I think we both know, that you, are nothing but a no good junkie.” 

JJ whispers suddenly in his other ear, “just an addict.” 

Reid whips his head around to JJ, seeing her with a wicked grin, and catching a glimpse of the rest of the team staring intently towards the interaction. 

Aaron had risen from his seat at some point, and with his authoritative voice gave his own input. 

“You’re not as smart as you think you are. Book smarts and an eidetic memory don’t make up for emotional and social unintelligence.” This was not a whisper. “I’m not sure why I’ve held on to you as an employee for so long, because you reached the end of your rope ages ago.”

“You make people uncomfortable.” Morgan’s voice. “But we all know at least one person you’ll get along great with.” 

“Tell me it doesn’t make it better?” 

The instant sinking and dread pile onto the already existing turmoil in his gut. This _cannot_ be real. 

Tobias Hankel. Alive. With a belt and syringe. 

His instinct was to stand and back away, but before he could, hands—his teammates’ hands— shove him back down into his seat and hold him there roughly for whatever Tobias would do to him. 

Something during that struggle must have jerked him awake and Reid sat up sharply on his couch, his heart racing. Ah, his alarm clock. 

A dream. 

While that was mildly comforting, he still had to get up and turn himself into a functional human being before work. And now because he’s been having these bizarre nightmares since being kidnapped, that’s all he’ll think about when seeing his team. 

After a few moments of what felt like breathing through a straw, he’s s able to clean his mess of blankets and ice from the couch and start getting ready for his official return to work. 

He’s still restless and ready to go back, but his pleasant little nightmare left a bad taste in his mouth. 

At least the headache has faded some.  
-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya, thanks again for reading ✨


	3. Tiny dots on an endless timeline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some what if’s, existential dread, and brain mush. It’s another pretty short, uneventful chapter, but! it’s also more positive than it sounds!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend listening to “talking to myself” by watsky, I didn’t realize how much it kinda paralleled while writing but it’s such an amazing song and really helps articulate the nonsense in our brains.
> 
> https://youtu.be/fsW1z9QThsA (the song on yt)

_I wish I was better with plants._

He’s happy his Zanzibar Gem or ‘ZZ’ is growing a new shoot though. It’s makes him feel like he’s successfully fostering it’s growth. 

He’s had it since before he left Nevada, given by a couple of friends as a birthday gift because it was basically un-killable, and he was notorious for unintentionally killing plants. Even the other “un-killable” types. Even when he (thought) he did everything right. 

At least his ZZ made it through two moves and a _lot_ of neglect. Always unintentional, of course. 

It’s like one minute he’s neck deep in a case, and the next it’s been a month, or two, and the soil is dry as a bone. 

More recently he’s been better with remembering to water it—although, he’s managed to kill plants by over-watering too. 

“I bet you’d probably be doing just fine on your own.” He says out loud, toward the plant. His mother always talked to the plants she kept. She said it helped them grow. Sometimes she would talk ‘to’ the plants during an episode. 

She said her mother would talk to her plants as well. He’s been told his grandmother was great with plants. His mom was pretty good with them too before the onset of her schizophrenia. 

Now he knows at least part of the reason plants respond to talking is because of the exhaling. He can read for days on end about the optimal conditions for raising different houseplants but if there were an opposite to having a “green thumb”, that’s the kind of non-ability he possesses. 

“I wonder if you’d have flourished better if you hadn’t been given to me.” He says, out loud again. 

It started with two stems, already with leaflets grown, and then expanded into 11 over a few years, staying stagnant for quite a while until recently. 

The new stem was a brighter green and he could see some of the leaflets starting to separate outward. 

“You’re a tall little guy,” he remarks, it had outgrown the previous tallest stem which was one of the two original. He’s genuinely surprised even the oldest of the bunch is still alive and thriving, but that says more about the plant than his ability to take care of it. 

The coffee pot beeps, still bubbling slightly. It takes his attention from plants and all the metaphorical conclusions and connections he’s trying not to give credit to, and back to his upcoming workday. 

He’s tired. Of course. He’s always tired, but that’s been normal since he was like 12. Both physically and existentially. (They have a diagnosis for that, he of all people knows that.) 

Normal... He supposes his perception of normal is probably quite different than the average person. Although colloquial averages and mathematical averages aren’t interchangeable, that’s sort of the big thing. He could site statistics and studies and academics all day but how much do those things matter if the overall perception is different? 

Who is anyone to say what is what when the true reality may not be being seen by anybody? 

(That sounded like something his mother might say.) 

He tops off his coffee and turns the burner off, unplugging the small machine from the wall, and glancing at the toaster to make sure it’s unplugged as well. Something else he picked up from his mom. 

Every characteristic, quirk, or similarity he shares with his mom scares him just a bit more than before, more than just knowing the genetic statistics of schizophrenia, and knowing they’re statistically significant for being mentioned at all. 

It’s one of those things he pretends not to notice. 

Today, Reid has determined, is going to be a good day. No nightmares and no headache so far; it has all the great starters to a good day. 

He made the connection long ago that every bad day has had at least one thing in common; that thing being himself. 

It’s more so an inside joke with himself than actually being based in self deprecation, not like it used to be. Now it sort of gives him a push to not let his attitude determine a ‘bad day’ before it even starts. 

At least, it usually does. 

-  
Most of the day went fine, his newly refreshed cynicism showing up often but relenting easily when challenged. Only when someone across the bull pen decided to eat fish for a late lunch did he allow his negative attitude a space in his mind. 

Because honestly come on, someone was literally eating tuna and mayonnaise with potato chips. They didn’t even bother making a sandwich with it! 

Not only was the smell of course, giving him a headache, but it was also a little too close to fish hearts and livers for his liking. Maybe they didn’t smell alike at all, but all fish smelled pretty bad to him and the neural pathways that make him relive trauma didn’t feel it necessary to distinguish the smells either. 

He stands, taking his empty styrofoam cup with him to the break room. Coffee doesn’t smell like fish. 

Maybe his headache is actually from the exorbitant amount of coffee he’s drank today. He doesn’t really care to figure out what caused the damn thing right now. Normally he would, but self destruction is an insidious parasite. 

Another one of those things he pretends he doesn’t notice: the little roots of negligence towards his health that will become more and more outwardly harmful the more he hides it. 

He’s stirring in sugar that’s already dissolved absentmindedly when Derek walks in. 

“Damn, who pissed in your Cheerios?” 

Reid looks at him, relaxing the face he didn’t realize was a blatant scowl, and smiles a bit. Shrugging, he nods out the glass overlooking the bull pen towards the guy still munching away. 

“That guy, I guess.” He lets out an exhale as a small laugh, “He’s eating tuna and mayonnaise. And I can smell it all the way at my desk.” He wrinkles his nose for effect. 

Derek shakes his head and glances back, coming to lean against the counter beside Reid. “He’s really just going for it isn’t he?” Derek remarks when he sees the guy tapping away at his computer with one hand, occupying the other only with spooning tuna into his mouth with potato chip after potato chip. 

“Right? At least use bread or something. Have a sandwich.” 

Derek laughs and heads to the water dispenser to refill his bottle, likely what he came in for. 

“I can’t believe you can smell that all the way over by our desks.” 

That means the onset was probably much earlier than Tuna Guy if he was really the only one smelling it. 

“I’m pretty sensitive to smell when I get migraines.” 

As soon as the word came out of his mouth he regretted it. He’d always just called them “headaches” if one got bad enough to effect him at work. For a while they were pretty well controlled and he was down to maybe two or three a month so the logistics of the name didn’t really matter. 

It wasn’t some huge secret or anything, just something that he felt passed the social window of acceptable to correct, but also it was just habit to minimize everything that made his life more difficult. 

“I didn’t know you got migraines.” Thankfully his tone made it clear he was interested, but not blowing it up. 

Still, Reid shrugged, unsure of what to say at first before just, letting go for once, and talking about it. 

“Yeah, they were a lot better for a while but they’ve been slowly getting more frequent over the last, I don’t know, six months?” 

“I’m sure all that caffeine doesn’t help.” It was just like Morgan to bug him because he could. He knew it was to try and take his mind off things without saying it. 

“Thank you, Mr. Two Liters a Day,” Reid says, pointedly taking a drink from his styrofoam coffee cup. 

Derek just takes a drink from his water bottle and flips him off for a couple seconds before returning _professionally_ back to his desk. 

Reid smiles to himself, thanking the universe for giving him moments like this to remind him that not everything in the world is shitty—and just when he’d unofficially/officially decided today was a bad day. 

He thought back to his plant. 

Maybe someone better with plants would have bought it, but maybe someone worse with plants would have. The reality was, his zamioculcas zamiifolia started with two stems of leaflets, and currently has twelve. 

That’s a 500% increase, even before the newest one, a 450% increase. 

Either way, that perception of reality really didn’t seem so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -also I forgot about dragging the ‘tuna guy’, don’t worry he’s based on me lmao, I used to make tuna sandwiches and eat whatever was leftover with chips, then eventually just skipped the sandwich part like this guy


End file.
